


since my heart is golden.

by dunkindonts



Series: call it what you want [2]
Category: Voltron: Legendary Defender
Genre: Drinking, Flirting, Implied/Referenced Sexual Assault, M/M, Panic Attacks, Unhealthy Coping Mechanisms, these tags make it sound angsty af but it's really not most of it is These Dumbs flirting lmao
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-02-27
Updated: 2017-02-27
Packaged: 2018-09-27 09:12:45
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,216
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/9996299
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/dunkindonts/pseuds/dunkindonts
Summary: “Then you can do jack shit for me.” Keith waves a hand dismissively, eyes now focused on the glittery grains in the granite. “Leave.”“I’m getting you some water.” What a fucking prince. “I’ll be right back.”





	

**Author's Note:**

> title is from [carried away by passion pit](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=DiEwJTOderQ)
> 
> this is in the same verse as my rocky horror snippet - how keith and shiro met in this self-indulgent au
> 
> warnings: keith is a mess and copes with alcohol; he has a panic attack due to being reminded of past sexual assualt so if that might trigger you please stay safe!!
> 
> thanks to my lovely roommate [smolchester](https://archiveofourown.org/users/smolchester/pseuds/smolchester) for reading this over even though she doesn't watch voltron

If you ask Keith, all house parties are foggy. At this point, though, that might just be his head. The drink in his hand keeps slipping from his grasp – either his sweaty palms or the condensation on the plastic easing the process. He can’t bring himself to care that much, he’s mostly gone already and doesn’t really want to puke in some grad student’s en suite.

“Keith!” Lance skids in front of him, stopping just before his sloshing drink hits the wall. “Keith, dude. Man. Man? Dude. Come dance.”

“I’m not really –“

“Keith, my edgy compadre,” Lance plops a hand on Keith’s shoulder only for it to be immediately shrugged off. “There are dudes on that dance floor. And you, my dude, need to get dicked.”

“What the fuck, Lance.” Not a question.

“We’ve shared an apartment for two years, mullethead. I _know_ things.” He waggles his eyebrows and Keith rethinks puking.

“Okay, this conversation is over.” Keith heaves himself away from the wall and knocks back the rest of his drink with a flair only the already quite drunk have. “Let’s go dance.”

Lance whoops.

Everything kind of dissolves from that point, blurring from Lance’s fingers curled around his wrist to the bass bouncing in his bones to the crooning of the singer as a faceless man brands the exposed part of Keith’s hip with the heat of his palm. Keith yanks away with a barely contained snarl. There’s still the alcohol snaking through his bloodstream but he can still throw a punch.

Faceless Bro grunts. “Okay, I get it. Not interested. Chill.” He shoves away into the crowd.

It takes Keith a second to realize his wrists are aching because his hands are still clutched in involuntary fists. He shakes them out angrily and pushes his way through sweaty bodies to the mostly empty kitchen.

Breathing. His breathing is important.

_twisting, panting, squeezing your waist, too tight, too tight, too tight_

White-knuckling some rando’s granite counter isn’t conducive to achieving serenity or whatever. He tries to release his grip on the next exhale.

_crushing in the lungs or is it the ribs just crushing, scraping, splitting, don’t scream, don’t give him the satisfaction, don’t fucking scream_

“Are you okay?” The voice isn’t filled with disgust, as Keith’s come to expect, only concern.

Keith keeps his eyes screwed shut, speaks through gritted teeth. “Does it look like it?”

“Can I help?” Keith thinks the guy can just leave him alone to die from his lungs collapsing in peace but Mr. Deep, Smoky, and Infuriatingly Calming Voice has other ideas. “Get you anything?”

“Another drink.” At least his breathing is evening out, thank god for distractions.

“I.” Oh, mystery guy hesitated. That’s cute. “I don’t think that’s what you need right now.”

“Then you can do jack shit for me.” Keith waves a hand dismissively, eyes now focused on the glittery grains in the granite. “Leave.”

“I’m getting you some water.” What a fucking prince. “I’ll be right back.”

Keith doesn’t know why the guy went in search of a disposable cup when they were already standing in the kitchen, but he takes the opportunity. He counts out a steady fifteen seconds and ducks back into the fray, closing in on a shitty plastic excuse for a shot glass and full enough bottle of Smirnoff.

The raspberry flavoring almost makes him gag but he lets the burn suffuse in his chest and goes for another. He doesn’t know where Lance is and he should probably care, but, fuck, he needs to forget.

The colors of the room blur to black soon after.

 

The sheets are softer than what Keith’s used to. For a moment, he’s terrified that he went home with someone – getting fucked six ways to Sunday does sound like something drunk Keith would want – but after a quick check it appears that he slept and wrinkled the nice sheets all on his own, still in his ripped jeans and self-made crop top. He pushes himself into a sitting position, ignoring the roiling protests of his stomach. His shoes are on the floor and his phone and wallet are on the nightstand and he’s planning on making a quick escape when the door opens and an Adonis steps inside.

 “Oh, you’re up.”

Shit. The voice. Keith knows that voice.

“Of course it’s you.” Keith scowls. “Prince fucking Charming.”

The guy raises his (perfectly sculpted) eyebrows as he sets a glass of water next to Keith’s phone and holds out ibuprofen. “Does that make you the princess?”

Keith can’t help his stunned expression. “You’re meaner when I’m not drunk.”

“When you’re not having a panic attack.” Handsome corrects mildly and fuck, Keith needs his name. And his dick. He’s not picky about the order. “Wanna talk about it?”

“Not really.” Keith downs the offered meds. “Who even are you?”

“Takashi Shirogane. You can call me Shiro.” God, that smile. Keith’s internally kicking himself because it’s been two seconds and he’s already a sucker for that smile. “And you’re Keith, right?”

“How –?”

“Someone saved in your phone as ‘stringbean’ texted it in all caps a lot after you passed out.”

“Fuck.” Keith rubs a hand over his face and groans. “Lance.”

“Boyfriend?” Either Keith’s still seeing things or Shiro’s face fell for a fraction of a second.

“God, no. Not that annoying fucker. He’s my roommate.”

“Oh.” Okay, that’s definitely relief in Shiro’s tone. “That’s. That’s good, I guess.”

“Why, you have ulterior motives, Shiro?” Keith purrs, knowing just how much of an asshole he is. “Did you rescue a pretty princess like me just for the reward?”

The blush spreading across Shiro’s face is stupidly endearing. “No, I just. I.” He trails off helplessly.

“You think I’m cute.” Keith grins triumphantly when the blush spreads below the collar of Shiro’s shirt. Keith wonders how pretty it looks diffused across Shiro’s broad chest. Shit. “It’s cool, you’re not bad yourself.” He starts tugging on his shoes, still stubbornly ignoring his nausea and his growing attraction for the man right next to him. “We still at the Holts’?”

“Yeah, Matt’s a friend.” Shiro runs a hand through his generous bangs. “Are you good to make it home? You can’t feel that great after last night.”

Everything about him is earnest and sweet and Keith needs to hightail it out of here before he does something exceedingly stupid. He tries to play it cool, but it comes off more biting than he intends.

“Oh, I feel like steamrolled shit. But I don’t need you to take care of me.”

“I’d like to.”

The fuck.

“God, you can’t just say shit like that.” It effectively kills the conversation for a minute and Keith fumbles with his phone. Contrary to popular (Lance’s) belief, he’s not gonna fall into bed with a guy at nine in the morning, no matter how hot said guy is. Besides, Shiro’s a gentleman.

He’s still standing at the door and Shiro’s hovering next to the bed, nervousness radiating off of him like a dog who knows its owner is about to go on vacation. “Do you. Do you want my number?”

Shiro’s pensive face splits into a grin and Keith swears he can hear a chorus of angels singing. “Yeah, Keith. I’d like that a lot.”

**Author's Note:**

> the beefiest part of shiro is his heart
> 
>    
> [twitter](https://twitter.com/hopewhirl) | [tumblr](https://transvityaa.tumblr.com)


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